Legacy
by Rose Basilisk007
Summary: Both John and Sherlock have a secret. So does little Harry Potter. He can do strange things and no one likes him for it. Until he ends up at 221B Baker street. Then everything changes. Even fate. It seems that when Sherlock and Harry are combine, not even Fate can hold against them. Johnlock, adoption, some light bashing, slight LotR crossover. Mpreg. Slash. Mature
1. Prologue- Lost

**Hello Lovlies. I will be boring and redunent for a moment; forgive me. Hem. I do not own Sherlock nor Harry Potter. I just think it would be wicked if they lived in the same world. Now that that's done with; I know this is short and seems to hold no relevance, but it does later. For those who are new to my work. This does contain slash, and it will be very dark in places. Some of you may end up very unhappy for what I do to Harry, but I just wanted to try my hand at this particular situation. Also, the mpreg comes later. Harry's name does change but you'll understand why. If you can't handle this after the first couple chapters, that's okay but don't waste your time and mine by flaming me about this. I published this. I don't care if you don't like, go read something else if that's the case. I enjoy my writing. Ergo, if you don't like it that's your problem. Not mine. I'm rambling. So I'll stop now. **

**Prologue- Lost**

**On the shores of what will be called Britain **

Elrond walked at a sedate pace under the moonlight. His young daughter, only at a century in age, was carried in his arms. He looked down upon his princess and saw so much of her mother, his first love, who'd given her life so their child would live. Elron thought of another lover, this one mortal. With striking eyes and bare feet, she almost looked elven. Her hair was dark as well, but was curled the way the tide curls upon the shore. She was also very short.

"You think of the woman you leave behind," said his friend Galadriel as she walked beside him. Her husband was with the guard up ahead.

"It is strange, the magical mortals steal our children for slavery, the mundane mortals fear us and we have been at war in this world for three centuries. Yet I've found myself grown attached to a mortal woman," he mused. The wheat haired seer besides him said nothing. She'd seen it all in her mirror. The mortal woman who reminded one of the elven but of lower stature, who seemed connected to the earth in a way they were not. She walked barefoot, the only magic she could preform was that of the earth and her elements.

She understood how Elrond had found comfort and warmth in the little mortal's arms and betwixt her sheets. She found no fault in her dear friend finding love again after his wife's passing; the mortal was different than the others, blessed by the earth and the stars. She knew the elven prince, king now that his father had passed-killed in battle before his time- had struggled with the decision to leave her behind. It had been the mortal who'd told him to leave, that his people and his daughter needed him more. She and hers would survive without him.

"The mortal will be fine, Elron. The line will not die, and she herself will live long," Galadriel said. They'd reached the shore where the boats were waiting. Elrond only said:

"The age of man has come here, and too soon. We are no longer welcome and shall leave the mortal men to their wars."

Thus the elves boarded the boats and sailed at dawn. They sailed until they found a new land. As the years past there were wars on that earth as well and though Elrond did not hate humans, he did not trust any but a rare exception. However as an eon passed he came into contact with small, elven like beings who walked in bare feet and had hair that curled as the tide does on the sand. They had integrity and courage, similar but different. They reminded him of another he'd known; and the child he never got to hold. The family he lost because of a war.

**Britain forest, a hut**

The woman screamed, her birthing pains an agony she'd never experienced before. Only for him, the elf who's helped her in the forest the day those noble warlocks had chased her with torture and shame in store for her when they finally caught her. They would have, she had no doubt, seeing as they were fully trained warlocks and she a lowly partial squib who only had enough magic for potions and herbs.

She screamed again, remembering the slender limbs, the sharp cheekbones, the height and his voice; so deep and smooth it reminded her of the river. She wondered if the child would look like him, her strange and wonderful saviour. She'd pushed him away, towards his people, ensuring he never saw his child; but it was for everyone's safety that it was done so.

One last scream and a wail filled the simple bedroom. The second child to push out into the world. The wise woman's apprentice was handling the first. Her newest child was cleaned, wrapped in a blankets and given to her. It was a boy, two sons she'd given her elven love. She felt pain in her chest as she remembered he'd be long gone by now, in the early morning light. He'd never hold their sons, he'd never even know they were sons.

She refused to cry tears for a life they'd both known could never be, not with the war of races. That would end, though, now that the elven had sailed away refusing to destroy an entire people because of the mad members. She cooed to her second son, forcing herself to focus on the present.

He had the flawless skin and high cheekbones of his father. The noble brow and aristocratic nose as well. He had her colouring, though. The dark hair and clear eyes. His brother also had the high cheekbones and noble brow of his elven lineage, but his skin and nose were hers. His hair and eyes matched her lost love, even if he had her curls. The ears had a slight point, but nothing obvious. The boys were a perfect mixture of the coupling.

"Mistress, Holymes; where's the father? He must hold them," asked the wise woman in their ugly language. She used to think it beautiful, but not after she met her elven love. The tears could not be refused any longer.

"He's lost to the sea," she said, and cried. In truth, he'd been lost to a war.

**A/N: I've another HP fanfic up called Masks. No main slash in that one. It's up though. The next ch. will be longer, and I'll still be writing A Thing with Feathers. So if my updating seems ****erratic, it's because I've got three stories and life to juggle. Ta**


	2. Chapter I-Not Bored

**Hello, Lovelies. I decided not to be as explicit in the abuse, or rather how it ****occurred. This is post Moriarty and in the books that makes it approximately three years after Sherlock "died". John isn't married, he and Mary had an argument-although I'd be spoiling it for you If I said anymore. Anyway, here you all are. **

**Chapter I- Not Boring**

**221B Baker St.- London England, Modern day**

Sherlock Holmes was Bored. Yes, with a capital "B".

He was very Bored.

He could feel his mind rotting he was so Bored.

He wouldn't have been bored that day, but John and Mrs Hudson had gotten rid of his experiments, they'd mumbled something about health safety and some such nonsense. He couldn't understand how they could brush science by in such a brisk manner. So what if there had been human viscera in the fridge. He'd been experimenting with the organs and he'd needed _somewhere _to put them where they wouldn't rot. Really, how could those two be so stupid? Sherlock had decided to spite them and smoke a fag, but it seemed that John had actually gotten rid of the latest pack he'd bought. Then Sherlock had decided to shoot that confounded wall again, it didn't matter that no one believed him- the wall _did _have it coming. John seemed to have had one of his rare moments of intelligence, however, and decided not just to hide the Browning but to take all the bullets with him to work, or at least leave them with Mrs Hudson.

So Sherlock was curled up in a sulking ball on the couch, wearing nothing but a sheet. If Lestrade or Mycroft or whoever wanted to come and give him a _boring _case, then they'd have to deal with him like this. Really, wasn't there anything _interesting_ going on in England today? It was days such as this one where he rather missed Moriarty. At least the consulting criminal hadn't been boring. Not to mention he'd given Sherlock quite the conundrum the previous years; what with making Sherlock fake his death and then run about figuring out ways to neutralise threats to his loved ones… Even Mycroft, although Sherlock would die before he informed his brother of that.

Anyway, Sherlock was sulking when the laptop gave trill, someone had emailed. Sherlock cocked his head and decided to see what it was. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. So off the couch he came, sheet wrapped around him like a blanket, and he shuffled over to the computer. Sherlock looked at the email, it seemed someone wanted request an investigation.

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_ I'm very glad that you are back fore I've very much missed the web journal. However, I am writing to let you know that if you are in need of a case then you shall find one along Privet Drive, Little Whinging Surrey. _

_ Regards_

Sherlock stared at the email. There were two sentences, short, concise and vague. There was no name, no specific information; just a tease. Someone familiar with older vernacular, which could mean a Ms Marple impersonator. Somehow Sherlock didn't think so. This email was…interesting. He had to look into this, and because he was still feeling vindictive; he shan't tell John about it.

Sherlock threw the sheet off and ran starkers to his room. He quickly dressed and went on his way, down the stairs and out into the nippy October air. He hailed a cab to the underground and got on the next train for Surrey. So much for boredom.

**Privet Drive- Little Whinging Surrey**

He was Bored again! The letter had been a disappointment, really. He felt betrayed. He'd walked up Privet Drive twice now. Twice! The houses were boring and identical, everyone was a snoop, an adulterer or a twat. Often a combination. He'd noticed number four had a tad more interesting secret of child labour, if the grass impressions had been anything to go by, but that was something the idiotic police could handle. He was walking back down Privet Drive, intent on skulking back to London, when he saw a small boy working in the garden at number four. Sherlock scoffed at the idea that there was much that could save the plants from winter, but that didn't seem to stop the dark haired child.

As he approached he noticed the clothes were from an obese spoilt brat, size of the clothing and quality of the fabric consistent with upper-middle class family that allowed son to over eat on a regular basis. This current child, he observed also wore shoes too large for him, was severely malnourished and seemed approximately seven years of age, rough measurement of bone length through simple observation as well as height indicated age as well as unusual small sleeping quarters that resulted in growth stunting. Also bruising, burns and scar tissue hidden beneath the clothes that fell off his body he was so skinny. Sherlock felt a pang of anger and sympathy for the child, the sensation being a burning hole in his gut. He wrote it off as biological instinct; seeing as he and the child looked very similar, even in their bone structure, to an extent.

The child should have been in primary school, it wasn't even the afternoon, but here he was. _Home schooled, _Sherlock concluded. He noticed the boy was holding a small garden snake that was bloody. It was obviously dead but the emotional reaction of the child indicated he was not the cause, tears and the manner in which the serpent was held. What really got to Sherlock, what convinced him that the email had been true after all, was that as the child buried the serpent in a shallow grave he hissed to the corpse in a long sibilant string. However, which seemed to be a phonetically structured that Sherlock knew, because linguistics was useful knowledge and so stored in him mind palace, to be a structure type for language. The child was, Sherlock could only conclude, speaking _snake_.

Sherlock was captivated. He had to learn, he made to figure out this puzzle. For the first time in a while Sherlock was absorbed into a mystery. The young boy looked up, noticing his presence. The clear, vibrant green irises and the livid scar on his forehead struck Sherlock. The child froze hands on the little grave he'd covered.

" It died. When someone dies they need to get buried or they make other people ill. It's good for plants too," the boy said, before he ran back into the house. Sherlock knew that to be logical, interesting that a seven year old knew such logic. His curiosity was piqued even further. Sherlock needed to observe this new puzzle.

Sherlock had spent hours watching the house from multiple different locations, slightly changing his dress, appearance and accent to fool the neighbours into not realising he was the same person. He did his best to get views of the windows but that was usually rare. Night had fallen. Most of the families were sitting down at the table but Sherlock didn't care, he had eyes only for number four and what _that _family was doing.

The wind had picked up and the air had become chill with the setting sun. Sherlock had noticed clouds overhead and concluded that there would be a light to moderate rain that evening, he wasn't wrong. The back door of number four opened to find a man pushing Sherlock's new puzzle out of the door. _Was that a walrus? _Sherlock asked as he blinked. Well, it didn't matter, only his puzzle did.

The puzzle staggered down the street, Sherlock followed, and seemed to know the area better than a child should. Whilst exploring, Sherlock had memorised the street layout of the boring place. He'd delete the information as soon as he left, but for now it may be useful. As Sherlock followed from a distance he suddenly saw an arm appear from an alley and grab the puzzle. His puzzle disappeared and Sherlock hurried to catch up. His sharp hearing picked up a gruff voice, indistinct wording as the puzzle screamed.

Sherlock entered the alley just in time to see the puzzle was pressed against the wall with his large pants falling down and a large man, _paedophile, _Sherlock deduced, undoing his own before something _really interesting _happened. One moment the scene before was occurring and before Sherlock could react there was a bright red light emitted from the puzzle that rushed into the man's chest; it threw the man across the alley and he smacked with a sickening crunch into the opposite wall. Even Anderson would have known the creep was dead.

Sherlock's puzzle was collapsed trembling against the wall and Sherlock was better able to see the extent of abuse. In less than thirty seconds he took in the belt impressions, bruising, healing leg bone and signs of previous sexual assault. This puzzle wasn't just complex and fascinating, he was tragic. Sherlock approached slowly, and the boy saw him. The wide green eyes grew even wider, fear obvious.

"It is alright. I'm not going to hurt you. My name is Sherlock," he said with his hands opened and out before him. He'd rather not experience what the dead man had.

"Are you going to tell my aunt and uncle?" Harry asked. _Parents dead or deemed unfit. Most likely the former, _Sherlock deduced. _Relatives excuse abuse as a punishment, no to increase the severity of the abuse,_ _for displays of…What? Magic? _Sherlock wasn't sure, but it had most definitely happened and wasn't a hoax. Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth. Science hadn't disproven magic, so it only remained an improbability. Until now, because Sherlock had most certainly not been hallucinating. _Truth, then, _Sherlock concluded. In front of him was a small warlock.

"No, I'm not going to tell your relatives. I'm actually here to help. What's your name?" Sherlock asked. Okay the bit about helping had been a lie, sort of. He didn't condone child abuse, or rape. So he'd be doing something about this little warlock.

"Freak. Or Boy, it depends on uncle's mood. You're the man from the burial today. Have you followed me all the way from Privet Drive?"

Sherlock nodded. The child knew they were five blocks away from his…Home. Interesting. However, Sherlock wasn't interested in that, he was interested in the warlock's name. _Psychological and emotional abuse as well? They don't have ass this do they._

"Why are you called freak. It's not a little boy's name," Sherlock said. He was pretty sure it wasn't an acceptable name. The warlock had risen and was pulling his overly large pants up. He did a half-shrug.

"I've always been called that, I was left at number four when my mother died. They say car accident, but I think they're lying. I should go now, I'm going to get in trouble for this," it was said with such a forlorn tone that held too much bitterness for a seven year old to have. The same way Sherlock had spoken to Mummy at that age.

"Come live with me," Sherlock said before he knew it. He froze, not only had he just compared this tiny warlock to himself, but now he was doing something very illogical. The green eyes turned to him, full of hope and bitter wisdom.

"You saw what I can do and you want to live with me?" he sounded sceptical, but there was hope hidden there as well. Sherlock nodded. _He'll be… An_ _experiment. Yes, that's all, _Sherlock told himself.

"I don't mind. People call me a freak as well. I personally think that being normal is boring," he said. The child took a step closer to him. He cocked his head, the light drizzle had turned rather heavy and they were both becoming wet.

"You're from a big city, and you live with other people… Are they nice?" the child with the big eyes asked. Sherlock blinked. _Oh this will be interesting, _he thought and smiled. A warm, genuine smile that didn't frighten people and that made him very handsome. He crouched down to the warlock's height.

"Yes, they are very nice people. John's a doctor and he loves children. Mrs Hudson is always ecstatic when a child lives in her building."

"She's your land lady." Another step closer, Sherlock to grab him if he so desired, but the child needed to make that move.

"Yes, and a very nice land lady too," Sherlock promised. The child took one last step towards him and nodded. Sherlock kept his smile as he scooped the little warlock into his arms.

"Then we're off to London."

**A/N: I know, Harry is a bit OOC, but he's lived a hard life and he knows that he's different. So he does what any child does when placed in that circumstance, he learns to read people-the fact he's got magic makes it easier for him. Which is why he can tell Sherlock is from a big ****city, people in big cities tend to live with other people because of space and money matters, hence it's logical Sherlock lives with people if he's from a city. Harry is logical because it helps him survive, but it also piques Sherlock's interest. I didn't name Harry because he gets a new name, although his nickname will be Harry. The name by itself though is boring, and must be upgraded. Also , John appears next ch. TA**


	3. Chapter II-Sapient Experiment

**Hello Lovelies, so this is ch.2. There's a lot of backstory in the first part, which is why it's a little short. I think you'll all laugh at some point, but yeah-this sets things up for the rest of the story. Also, I made Harry a bit smarter than he's portrayed in cannon, but that's because I think he'd be at least as smart as Hermione if he'd been encouraged. So he's going to seem a little OCC at the end. Ta **

**Chapter II- The sapient experiment**

**221B Baker St.-London, 24 hours later**

John walked up the stairs to the flat he and Sherlock shared. He was tired, he was hungry, he was dead on his feet; and, all this added up to meaning, he was _not _up for _any _of Sherlock experimenting. Not to mention he and Mary had had a row about his flat mate, who had returned this last summer free and clear of charges and most definitely not dead.

Mary hadn't wanted to share the flat with Sherlock, Sherlock had said he'd find a new place then. Sherlock, who _still _hadn't told John what had happened on the roof with Moriarty, had shocked John with such selflessness. Mrs Hudson, who'd also held on doubts about the consulting Detective's innocence, wouldn't hear of it. Sherlock would continue to rent from her, end of discussion.

John had managed to convince Mary to try it out; Sherlock had actually kept his experiments out of the kitchen, using 221C instead. He'd kept out of Mary's way, he paid his bills on time, he'd been the most perfect flatmate as he went about reinstituting his webpage, reputation and former standing with New Scotland Yard; who _still _were being-as net surfers called it-flamed for their mistake. Mycroft was downright terrifying when vindictive.

Mary hadn't let up, and it was only made worse when John offered to assist Sherlock again, the offer was tentatively accepted-much to Mary's displeasure-but he was only brought along for the cases Sherlock accepted but found "boring". John was not brought to crime scenes, he did not participate in chases, and his job at the Surgery came first before cases. John returned to blogging about all of Sherlock's cases, as the man was willing to fill John in on the cases he didn't bring John into. However, John had felt disconnected from his close friend, he felt left out and he worried every time Sherlock didn't bring him along; frightened out of his skull that he'd have to attend another funeral.

So he'd had a row with Sherlock about it in late July, when Mary wasn't home, and had managed to actually win it. Sherlock seemed upset, slightly, and would still take cases without John; but it happened less frequently and his strange friend slowly started recovering from whatever mental rut he'd been in on his return. When Mary found out the couple had had a row. A very bad one, Sherlock had actually left the flat because of it.

He and Sherlock had another row the next day to reiterate John's increase of involvement in the cases. John and Mary's relationship had hit a reef in mid-August and still hadn't recovered. It was now mid-October and the Surgery had been full for the last two days; just case after case after case. John had slept in his office twice in the last three days. It was ridiculous. Twelve hours ago Mary had barged into his office, where he was sleeping, woke him up and told him she couldn't handle it anymore. John had to choose between her or Sherlock. Except, she hadn't called Sherlock by him name, she'd used the "F" word that _every _person who was intimidated by the consulting detective used. John had snapped. Told the woman he'd dated for two and a half years, been living with for one year and had been planning on proposing to in August, that obviously hadn't happened, had just called his friend a terrible word.

John had told her with the cool calm he showed in surgery that he chose Sherlock. Of course, then-like _all _the women he'd seen since living with Sherlock- accused him of having an affair with the man. She'd left screaming that he should just stop hiding in the cupboard.

He sighed as he reached the door. _Why is it that everyone thinks I'm gay? I honestly wouldn't mind it if I actively slept with men, but I haven't since that one night in med school so really… _he rambled in his head as he unlocked the door to the flat and walked in. Once his relationship with Mary had _really _started to curled the way milk does, Mary had become rather vindictive towards Sherlock and vice versa. So, the first thing that John did was head straight to the kitchen and check the fridge for body parts and viscera.

Over the last month, for the sole reason of pissing Mary off, Sherlock had subtly moved his experiments back into the flat. So After the fridge checked out, thank Merlin, he checked the cupboards and the containers to ensure there wasn't anything…Inedible, yeah let's use that word, in them rather than any edible, _safe_ substance. Once John declared the kitchen safe, which he hadn't been able to do in a month, he went to the living room. There weren't any holes in the wall, well, no new ones anyway-the wall, regardless of what Sherlock said, _did not _"have it coming". The skull was in it's proper place, eerily staring out at the room. There were no swords from assassins under the chairs. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

_Just myself, Sherlock and the little boy, _John thought with contentment. Then he frowned. _Boy? _

He looked again. Yes, there was a boy, maybe four or five years old sitting with Sherlock on the floor. He had the same messy, curly dark hair, the same long fingers, mesmerising eye colour. The only difference was the malnourished body and haunted look in his eyes. A look John knew too well, the child had seen hell. Yet here he was, wrapped in a sheet-just like Sherlock-and was listening with rapt attention to whatever it was his flatmate was speaking about.

"…Sherlock," John started with trepidation. "Why is there a small child in the Flat?"

"And… Hm? Oh, he's my experiment. Now where-"

"Experiment?!"

"Yeah, I'm interesting," said the boy. John stared at the small child. His eyes wide. _Where _had Sherlock gotten a child? John felt his dread increase exponentially. HE gave the boy a small smile and knelt down, his damaged leg protesting in a polite manner.

"I bet you are, but the people who look after you must be worried," he said. The boy hadn't spoken with the lisp most children lost at six, so maybe he was older. "After all, you have school in the morning too."

"My aunt and uncle don't give a sixpence for me and I don't go to school," the boy said. John blinked, that statement, and the state of this little boy with big eyes, confirmed child neglect and abuse; but it had been said in the same factual tone as a weather report.

"Well, isn't there anybody else in your family you can go to?" John tried again.

"There's aunt Marge, but I don't like her. She lets her dogs hunt me. She's the only other family, my parents died when I was a baby six years ago," The little boy said. John cut his eyes quickly to Sherlock then looked at the child before him. Lestrade was definitely getting a call after this.

"Well, Sherlock and I have a friend who can help us solve that little problem. My name's John, what's yours?"

"Freak, or Boy. It depends on how my family is feeling at the moment. Sherlock said I could stay here and be his experiment because I'm… Sapiant?" the little boy gave a small smile.

"Sapient, little experiment. The correct pronunciation is sapient. John, may we talk in the bedroom?" Sherlock said. John was relieved. For a moment he'd wondered if Mary hadn't been the way to go after all.

Once in John's bed room Sherlock closed the door.

"I need to talk to you about the boy," Sherlock said. John felt more relief flood his system. Perhaps Sherlock had grown a little in his three-year absence.

"You read my mind. We should call Lestrade," John said.

"What? Oh, not right away. I thought we'd contact Mycroft first, although calling them both seems a good idea now that you mention it. I admit this is new territory…"

"Sherlock!? Why do you want to call _Mycroft_? What was the kid talking about being an experiment, and would you stop texting for a moment?" John demanded. Sherlock didn't even look up from his mobile. He was already walking out the bedroom door.

"He's an experiment because I've never been a parent before. I'm texting Mycroft because he'll help me file the necessary paperwork for adopting the sapient experiment. You should see how he's taken to literacy, John. He didn't know anything yesterday and today he's writing full sentences and reading books on his own. Probably he doesn't much but that he can read without assistance is wonderful," Sherlock said as he shuffled along in his sheet. Leaving a gaping John behind.

**New Scotland Yard, Lestrade's office**

Greg Lestrade was sitting at his desk doing paperwork when the text came.

_Come to 221B right away if it's convenient –-SH_

_ If inconvenient, come anyway-SH _

Lestrade sighed as he put the mobile down. Why had he ever thought he'd missed the consulting detective?

**Parliament, Mycroft Holmes's office**

Mycroft was sitting in his chair doing paperwork when his assistant came in.

"Sir, your brother texted me telling me to tell you to check your mobile," she said. Mycroft nodded and she left. Mycroft put down his pen and picked up his mobile. He had to admit, he was intrigued. Sherlock _never _texted Mycroft.

_Come to 221B ASAP. We'll have to start calling Mummy Grand-mummy soon-SH _

Mycroft stared at his mobile before he launched himself out of his chair, with grace and authority-mind you, grabbed his umbrella and left his office. The only thought on his my was: _What has my baby brother done now? _


	4. Chapter III-Chemistry

**Hello, lovlies. The title makes sense as you read. Also the * is to have you read this note. D.C is short for Detective Constable. Little ****Harry meets everyone, well, everyone important. So here you are.**

**Chapter III- Chemistry **

**221B Baker St.-London**

Sherlock was sitting on the floor with the green-eyed child and John was at his laptop, writing. He'd _really, really _wanted to sleep in his bed but the child and Sherlock's strange insistence to adopt the child took precedent. So John was checking out emails to the blog. Which is how he found the vague letter about a small town in Surrey. John deduced, because he wasn't as dumb as Sherlock thought, that this was where the boy had been found.

John was thinking of giving the child a preliminary check-up, because he'd obviously been abused; but Lestrade and Mycroft would arrive soon and the boy was listening to Sherlock's lecture about chemistry in reverence. John had noticed the seven-year old, yes he had asked the child his age, would sometimes aske questions or rephrase Sherlock's explanation; showing the young child who'd never gone to school was very bright and a quick study.

_I have to admit, they do look like a father and son, _John thought as he watched his flatmate instructing a seven year old in the elements and periodic table. John loved kids, he'd always wanted a couple for himself, or to be an uncle. Sure he didn't know a lot about parenting, but most people didn't when they became parents. Still, he felt a warmth bubble in his chest as he looked at the pair on the floor who really did look like they were family. A knock sounded at the door.

"It's open," John said as he got up. Mycroft never knocked so it was probably Lestrade. He was wrong, Mrs Hudson came in with a tea tray and baked goods. She was saying something about how this was only an act of thoughtfulness-she wasn't their housekeeper. She stopped when she saw the little boy in a sheet.

"Who do we have here, Dr Watson? Hello dear, would you like some tea?" she asked whilst placing the tray on the table. The little boy looked up with big, shocked eyes. Her heart melted at the sight and even more when he nodded his head.

"Yes, thank-you ma'am," he said in a shy polite voice. He was so young, but such manners. Sherlock looked at Mrs Hudson.

"Thank-you Mrs Hudson. John, could you go get extra cups from the kitchen-Mycroft and Lestrade should be here shortly. Mrs Hudson, this is…I forgot, we still have to name you. Well, that can wait until after the adoption," Sherlock said. Mrs Hudson looked ecstatic. _A child in the building again! _She cried happily in her mind. _The couple in 221A will want to hear about this. I wonder what John's flatmate Mary has to say about this? I suppose she'll be moving out, she did seem to fancy the dear doctor. I tried to warn her John and Sherlock were together, but she wouldn't listen. Poor dear._

"Adoption? Oh how wonderful. I've rather missed having children in the building. What do you mean by giving him a name Sherlock, surely you already have a name dear," she said, directing the last bit towards that adorable angel on the floor who looked far to thin for her liking. John wasn't sure how Sherlock would respond.

"He's an orphan Mrs Hudson; normally I wouldn't call my brother or Lestrade in for an adoption but this little boy was placed with rather abusive relatives as an infant once his parents passed. We're taking custody of him, which is why my brother and the Detective Inspector will be getting involved. If his deceased parents _had _given him a name, his relatives have never used it, nor was he sent to school," Sherlock explained in his brisk, blunt manner. The little dear just nodded solemnly and didn't seem at all disturbed by the man's blunt summary of his life. John's heart broke as he realised that there was a lot Sherlock was leaving out, but still it was hard listening to such an atrocity. Mrs Hudson looked close to tears.

She hugged the child, much to the boy's shock, and kissed his messy head, much to his confusion. It made her actually cry. _Has no one shown him any love and affection? Oh, the sweet, poor dear. Such good boys, taking him away from such awful people, _she thought as she kissed the dark haired angel again.

"You boys are so sweet to do this. I so happy for you two, finally getting a child. It's about time too, you know. Don't you worry, little dear, these two will love you just as much as I'm sure your birth parents did. I know Sherlock can be a little hard sometimes, but he's really very sweet. I hope the Detective Inspector makes those monsters pay," she said as she handed the little sweetheart a warm bun.

"Make what monsters pay?" asked Lestrade from the door, Mycroft by his side with his usual umbrella. They both stopped to absorb the scene in front of them. At the desk was John in a green jumper and jeans, his laptop open before and a cuppa tea in his hands. Sherlock was sitting on the floor in a white sheet, he was obviously starkers beneath it and was drinking his own cup. Mrs Hudson was handing _a small male child wearing a sheet and looking eerily like Sherlock _a pastry. Mrs Hudson smiled and put out two more cups from the British Government and the Detective Inspector.

"Sherlock and John are adopting this sweet boy," Mrs Hudson beamed. "I'll leave you boys to it."

"So, I'm to be an uncle…" Mycroft said as Mrs Hudson left. Lestrade had slowly moved to the chair near the child; he'd spent his time as D.C * working mostly with abused children. This child couldn't have been older than eight but he'd obviously been in a rough, rough home. At the word "uncle" the boy flinched and looked at Mycroft with suspicion. _Not his parents, then, _Lestrade thought as he smiled at the boy. The flinch hadn't escaped Mycroft. He gave the child a soft smile.

"Hello, I'm Mycroft. I am Sherlock's elder brother. What is your name?" Mycroft asked in a kind tone. The scene was surreal to all the adults in the room. The little boy continued to eye Mycroft with suspicion but it was less intense.

"My uncle always called me freak, or boy. He used freak more, though," the little boy said. Mycroft felt his blood begin to boil. Yes, he'd said caring wasn't an advantage, yes he acted cold to his younger brother; but he did care for Sherlock and he'd always look after his baby brother. So he detested the term "freak" with a passion, having heard idiots and peons use the word in reference to his younger brother for the majority of their lives. To learn this child's own _family_, a sacred concept to a Holmes, had used that term in lieu of the child's name… No wonder the child was suspicious of an uncle.

Lestrade was also enraged, it just showed on his face. That was a form of emotional abuse, it destroyed a child's fragile self-esteem. Sherlock spoke into the silence.

"He's an orphan, left with his maternal relatives, none paternal. His parents died under mysterious circumstances whilst he was an infant, he was given to his relatives then. They starved, beat and worked him for the last six years. I found him in an alley fending off a detestable individual, his family had told him to leave so they could eat in peace.

"Mycroft I want all the necessary papers drawn up and completed giving John and I full custody of him. Lestrade, having Child Services pay an impromptu visit to number four Privet Drive, Little Whinging Surrey would be much appreciated," Sherlock said. Lestrade blinked.

He looked to John, who-in complete shock to the whole concept of raising a child with Sherlock-absently nodded his head, and then nodded to Sherlock. He'd write this up as an anonymous tip. Mycroft looked weary at the idea. It's not that he minded children, no-the Holmes line needed heirs-but he was dubious as to whether his younger brother would make a suitable parent for this child. Even with John's help such a… Damaged child as this would be too much, perhaps.

"I'll look into whatever you bring me for a year," Sherlock said.

"Two years," Mycroft replied. Did he know his little brother was trying to bribe him? Of course he did, he noticed nearly as much as Sherlock did; and besides, his baby brother had been bribing him since he'd learned the meaning of the word at two.

"Eighteen months and I'll seriously consider any cases brought to me for a further eighteen after that."

"Deal, the paperwork shall be done by this evening. Text me his name when the two of you have decided… Which reminds me—"

"She'll be moved out by the end of the week," John said anticipating the elder Holmes's question. The three adults gave John the same questioning look.

_What was the cause this time?_

"She made me choose," John said. Sherlock bored his gaze into doctor, trying to deduce something. Lestrade shook his head and stood. Promising to do his part, saying good-bye to the newest Holmes and leaving. Mycroft blinked before nodding. The umbrella wielder went to his newt nephew and offered his hand.

"Welcome to the family my dear nephew," he said. Harry shook the hand and gave a small smile, but still too weary to say anything in such close proximity.

Once the British Government and the Detective Inspector had left John looked at Sherlock, who was still staring at him.

"So, what should be…Our son's name?" John asked. _Oh_ did that sound weird. Harry was never going to believe this when he next wrote her.

"I don't know, nothing boring. That's for certain."

Harry looked at his… parents. He knew what the terms orphan and adoption meant, Sherlock and John would become his parents because his first set died. He knew he should feel sad about the deaths of his mother and father but, in all honesty, he didn't feel much towards his birth parents at all. He had no memories of them, they'd died when he was young and Harry had learned nothing of them from living with his aunt. Now that Harry was getting new parents he thought even less, next to nothing, about his birth parents than before. Harry got up and went to the bookshelf. His talk with his…What should he call Sherlock? _Papa, and then John can be Dad, _he decided with the logic that only a child possessed when it came to naming adults. His talk with his papa had made him very interested in the science called chemistry. It sounded a lot like cooking, which was one of the chores he enjoyed doing. So he found a book that had the word chemistry written on it, Papa had made his practice spelling with the word, and took it over to the couch under the hole riddled smiley face. Apparently Papa had gotten angry at the wall and used Dad's browning, a kind of gun, to hurt the wall. When he'd asked why Papa had gotten angry, he'd been told about what the wall had said to papa. It sounded like Papa was completely justified, a word papa had also had him practice spell, in saying the smiley wall had it coming.

He thought that the Dursleys had it coming too, whatever it was they would be getting. He opened the book on Chemistry as his new parents argued over his new name. He knew where the dictionary was and Papa had taught him how to look up words; so whilst they bickered about what to give him for a name he would learn more about chemistry and practicing his reading at the same time. His time with the Dursleys, he could call them that now that he was getting a new family, had taught him how to do lots of things at once. It saved time on chores.

At first he'd thought he shouldn't learn, even though he'd always wanted to do so, but Papa had told him that he should learn lots and have a thirst for knowledge because he was a child and it was the best time for him to learn. So he decided that he'd make Papa happy and try to learn everything and anything he found interesting. Maybe, if he worked really hard on chemistry, Papa would let him help with experiments; they sounded really interesting and filled with knowledge.

He absently summoned a dictionary to him as he started reading. His mouth silently pronouncing the words as his new parents argued.


	5. Chapter IV-Scars

**Chapter IV-Scars **

**221B Baker St.-London, a week later**

"Harcourt, breakfast!" called John from the kitchen. Sherlock was already at the table; having had another argument about proper nutrition. Sherlock had said his lack of eating wouldn't cause Harcourt, the name they had _finally _agreed upon, to refuse food and John had told him children learned by watching those who they looked up to. Sherlock had finally relented after realising John wouldn't let it go.

Harcourt came in still in his sleeping pants and shirt. They'd turned Sherlock's office, which he never used, into a bedroom. Mycroft and Lestrade helped, and Mrs Hudson had taken Harcourt shopping for proper clothes. Harcourt was carrying that big book of chemistry with him.

"Any questions today?" Sherlock asked as Harcourt sat in his chair.

"I'm confused about atoms. I understand about how they make up everything, like building blocks, but I don't understand how they work. The book uses lots of big words and the dictionary doesn't help much when I look them up," Harcourt said. John put a plate of eggs, toast and bacon in front of the seven year old. He made up Sherlock's plate next.

"That's understandable; textbooks are made with pompousness in mind," Sherlock said and John snorted. _Of all people to say that,_ John commented.

"I'm not pompous, John. I'm just more intelligent than the majority of the population," Sherlock defended himself. John rolled his eyes. He'd _long _since stopped being shocked by Sherlock's seemingly being adept at legimency. John put Sherlock's plate on the table and sat down with his own. They were almost finished when the turning of a key could be heard at the door. John and Sherlock shared a look that said, _Mary. _

Sure enough Mary walked into the kitchen with a newspaper and stared at the scene before her. It made her blood boil. They looked like a bloody family sitting there. Hell, the little boy even looked like the freak.

_She'd _waited so long for Sherlock to be out of the picture before she approached John as a romantic interest; she wasn't stupid, she'd seen how John had always chosen that freak of a man over every chit he'd been with. So she'd waited for Sherlock to show just how strange and awful he was, and it had happened. He'd turned out to be a serial murderer and then he'd jumped off a building. Sure, John had been inconsolable for a full sodding year but then she'd approached him and he'd snapped at the chance.

Two years they'd been together. Two wondrous years, John hadn't thrown any of Sherlock's things into the rubbish bin when she'd moved in. He flat out refused and she decided to try again when they were married, or were expecting kids; John was perfect family material, after all. However, just when John was going to propose, and _she _had known he was going to, it was found out that Sherlock had actually been framed and was clear of all charges against him. Then, just to add icing to the cake, the freak shows up on _their _doorstep, asking for his things.

Everything started to fall apart after that. John had insisted Sherlock stay with them until he found somewhere else, but Mrs Hudson wouldn't hear of it. The two women had never liked each other; the old woman apparently believed in Sherlock and thought Mary was an unwelcome invader whilst Mary thought the old biddy should go jump in the Thames. The freak and John started spending time together, and soon John decided to assist the bastard again. There had been rows between her and John, her and the freak, John and the freak; and she'd been losing every one of them. Then the _experiments _had started and everything was worse. A week ago she'd gone to John and told him to pick. She'd been sure he'd pick her that everyone was wrong when they told her it was only a matter of time before the John and the freak got back together. She'd been wrong though, John had chosen the man over her! She regretted the things she'd said then, and she'd stayed away for a week. Now here she was, expecting to patch things up with John and she found…_This. _

John and the freak sitting at the table, side by side, with breakfast in front of them; John dressed for work and the freak in his usual clothing. Them drinking morning coffee and tea whilst a little boy who looked _just like that freak _was sitting on John's other side looking like he'd just woken up. It was a family scene, one that had played out in Mary's mind quite often over the last few years; but this was a mockery of her vision. It wasn't her next to John, it was the freak. It wasn't her little child sitting there asking questions about school or a child's book, it was a strange boy asking about the finer points of atoms in chemistry.

"What's this?" she asked, her voice strained. John stared whilst the boy and freak blink in sync with each other.

"It's breakfast," said the little boy slowly. IN. THE. SAME. WAY. THE. FREAK. DID.

"Who are you?" she asked to the child, she used a slightly friendly tone. The boy frowned a little, the way John did when he didn't feel like he was going to like where a conversation was heading.

"My name is Harcourt Holmes, although I think it rude for you not to introduce yourself first," he said. Mary almost twitched.

"I'm Mary, John's partner. So you're Holmes's son?" she replied with a tight smile. Sherlock was watching with interest and John looked very concerned. The bo—Harcourt's frown deepened a little.

"Yes, and daddy's too. I thought you were moving out of the flat this week," he said. She froze. _Daddy?_ She mentally shook herself, if he had a daddy too that meant Sherlock and John weren't together. This could work.

"Who said I was moving out?" she asked.

"Daddy did," Harcourt said and turned to John with confusion all over his face. "You said she'd be leaving at the end of the week, didn't you Daddy?" Harcourt asked. John and Sherlock had gotten used to Harcourt calling them daddy and papa. _Perhaps we should've thought about other's reactions, _John thought as he saw Mary turn red. Sherlock looked like he was examining her the way he did viscera. That was a bit not good.

"You said that?!" she cried and slammed the paper she was carrying down on the table. John almost flinched at the loud sound whilst Sherlock's eyes got bright. Harcourt cried out and ran to hide behind John.

"You told me to pick and I did, I don't want to be involved with someone who slanders my friends. Now stop yelling, you're frightening Harry," John said with calm. The military really had helped him to react well in strenuous situations; although he was sure they didn't think about potentially violent ex-lovers when they trained their soldiers.

"Harry? When the hell did you get a son?" she demanded. He was supposed to have a family with her, not the freak.

"When he needed a family that would love him; not abuse him simply because he was different and was all alone in the world," Sherlock replied. He had yet to tell John about the magic little Harcourt could do but he and the boy had been practicing with it and it seemed like the energy responded to high emotions. John was about to find out how different their son was. Harcourt peeked out from behind John.

"You shouldn't get angry just because Papa and I have Daddy and you want him all to yourself. That's selfish and make you mean," Harry said. Sherlock nodded with a smirk. _Oh _Harcourt was learning very quickly how to be a Holmes. Although his uncle Mycroft may have to teach him some subtly.

"Excuse me?! You little brat-"

"Get out, Mary. I want you and your things gone by Sunday," John said in the same calm voice. As if he wasn't emotionally run hot with anger. Mary reared back like she'd been slapped.

"You really want_ them_? They're freaks!"

She got no further as a soft pop was heard and she vanished into thin air. There was quiet but when John turned, shocked, to Harry he saw tears. Sherlock moved to gather Harry into his arms.

"John's not like the others, remember? He's daddy. He won't be upset, he's just shocked; he likes us, remember?" Sherlock all but cooed the words to their son. John was in shock but not because he'd not seen something like that before.

"I've never seen accidental magic that powerful before. _Oh, the scar_. That explains it… Oh dear," John said more to himself than anyone. Sherlock, however turned in surprise. He'd always known John had a secret, one that involved his family and something else, but now he knew.

The strange colloquialisms, the lack of a paper trail until secondary school, the lack of surprise to odd occurrences, the lack of information shared about his family.

"You know about magic, have for a while. Your whole life, yet you chose to live with those without magic. Why? You don't use it, or you can't; does it have something to do with the scar on your forearm? You received the scar in childhood but gave no further information. Your family has magic, as you left the world long before Harcourt was born but still recognise the horrid scar. Something big happened and Harcourt's original parents were involved; they died he didn't and that is quite singular to the magical society for some reason. He was left with non-magical people and no one from the magical society has heard from him since," Sherlock deduced as he rocked Harry in his arms.

"My father got tired of waiting for my accidental magic to appear, I couldn't preform it in time and that's how I got my scar. Harry's got magic but I was born a squib. We don't live in the Wizarding World if we can't use magic so I was given to an orphanage. I was adopted by the Watsons and have lived a muggle ever since," John said in shock. He knew Sherlock wasn't a wizard, squibs couldn't use magic but they were sensitive to it. He'd felt it around Harcourt but not around Sherlock.

"Squib, one born to magic but can't use it? Muggles, a term to describe non-magical folk? The whole place sounds rather bigoted," Sherlock snorted. Harry was no longer crying but was instead looking at John.

"You're not angry I made the scary Mary go away, Daddy?" Harry asked. John smiled then and took Harry from Sherlock.

"Not at all, Harry. Although that scar of yours will give you away to a lot of people. My sister thought that you were hidden to keep bad men away from you… I don't know the whole story but I know the main points of it, Sherlock. Seems there was a very bad man named Voldemort and he liked to hurt people. There were some people who tried to stop them, and I guess your parents were two of them. One night the bad man came and killed your mother and father, but you were only left a scar when he tried to hurt you. The bad man disappeared and you became famous but a lot of people weren't happy because they had agreed with the bad man. That may have been the reason you were hidden. Do you understand, Harry?"

"Yes, they all think I made the Voldie man go away and some people want to hurt me because of their illogicolal thinking," Harry said. Sherlock snorted.

"Yes, that does sound _illogical _blaming a child because he somehow did something others couldn't, or wouldn't do. Harcourt, it seems your magical ability is so strong you did something the idiots thought impossible. It wasn't impossible, just improbable and was done because you did not think of the limits of your abilities. When you don't know your abilities the impossible becomes improbable and is more likely to occur. Also, there is an article in the paper John. I think you should read it. I have experiments to preform, so I'll clean up."

"Daddy, may we go to the park?" Harry asked with hopeful eyes.

"Alright, I've got an hour before work. You have wear a hat though."

Harry giggled in delight.


	6. Chapter V-Someone like me

**Chapter V- Someone like me**

**A park in London **

Harry was swinging as John pushed him. There was no ring on his finger so as Harry giggled and cried, higher daddy, higher, the single mums turned to admire the man who was playing with his son. Harry suddenly jumped out of the swing seat and John hustled to him just in time to catch him, a few seconds of hovering in mid-air went unnoticed by everyone except a little girl.

"Tag, your it!" Harry cried and wheedled his way to the ground before John could react. Harry scurried off and hid behind a bush, was that cheating-maybe, but John was big and Harcourt was small so he'd use all his advantages.

"I saw what you did, you hovered before your dad caught you," said a voice next to him. A girl his age in a school uniform of some academy was sharing his bush and was reading a book. She had hazel eyes and bushy brown hair. Harry nearly stopped breathing as the girl closed her book, she smile and Harry noticed her front teeth were missing.

"I'm Hermione Granger and I can do things like that too, so don't worry about me telling someone. No one listens to me anyway, unless I have the right answer or say something clever," she said holding out a hand. Harry looked at it for a moment before he shook it.

"My name is Harcourt Holmes. My Daddy brought me to the park to play before work but we'll have to go soon so I'll end up studying with Papa again today. I'm learning chemistry; what about you?"

"Basic grammar, but I'm already ahead. So, I'm studying my arithmetic. Don't you go to school?"

"No, Papa said school's boring unless you're learning something useful or interesting so he's teaching me himself. He's going to explain atoms today and then we'll build my vocabulary and writing skills. Why aren't you in school?"

"They bully me, so I often don't go. So long as I learn everything and get perfect marks my parents don't question it. The academy is top-notch but they don't believe in skipping levels; so I'm stuck."

"Harcourt Sherrinford! I've been looking for you, we have to go… Hello there, what's your name?" John asked as he spotted Hermione. Harry gave a big grin.

"This is my friend Hermione! She's like me; she can do magic and she's very clever. Can she come with us and learn from Papa?"

"…I don't think that would be a good idea, Harry. Your parents are probably worried about where you are, Ms Hermione. I think you should go back to school, but you can come play with Harry when school is over if your parents allow it. We live on Baker street, flat 221. Say good-bye Harry," John said as he picked Harry up. Harry waved good-bye, which his new friend returned.

**221B Baker St.-London **

Sherlock was in his chair, reading the paper Mary had left behind when Harcourt made her "go away". Sherlock vaguely wondered where she'd been sent to, but he didn't really care. John didn't seem particularly upset, so Sherlock that as leave to feel pretty damn good that the chit was out of their lives. His brother had done a fine job with the paper, and Lestrade had been very competent.

The article was well written and very well played.

_Several days ago, in a lovely neighbourhood in suburbia called Privet Drive, a well respected family were knock up by child services partnered with New Scotland Yard lead by D.C.I Lestrade. A respectable woman known for her involvement in charity works through out the neighbourhood, a Mrs Dursley, answered the door. Law enforcement had been called in to investigate a case of child abuse and child labour by an undisclosed couple who'd found a lost child who gave his address as the residence of Mr and Mrs Dursley. One of the partners who found the child is a doctor and he reported the child as having several signs of physical abuse, including burns and belt marks, as well as severe malnourishment._

_ His partner, a consultant for the police, called D.C.I Lestrade and gave a summary of what his partner had noticed. Lestrade made his way to their residence and had an interview with the child. The little boy, a seven-year-old orphan, told the D.C.I that he was not allowed in the house whilst the family ate, whom he referred to as his aunt and uncle along with his cousin, as it spoiled their appetite to look at him whilst dining. When asked what his name was, in order to contact other relatives, it was discovered that his uncle's sister, a Marge Dursley, had set her dogs upon him numerous times and he bore the scars to prove such an account. Further inquiry unearthed that although he was seven, he had not been educated in anyway and did not even know his own name; stating he was only ever referred to as 'freak' or 'boy'. _

_ D.C.I Lestrade and his team entered the house on Privet Drive to discover that the young child left in their care was forced to stay in a cupboard under the stairs, which is infested with poisonous spiders. Any clothes that this child was to wear were inadequate. His cousin, same age as the victim, is reputed to be a bully and has been seen multiple times harassing other children. The Dursleys live in moderate wealth and there fore there was no reason to treat the child in such a manner. Witnesses say they have seen the young child doing chores often and have seen the adults verbally abuse him, calling him 'worthless' and 'ungrateful'. One must question how can even an innocent, unknowing child be grateful for such foul treatment. The boy, whose name has not been disclosed for his own safety, is reported to not understanding why the adults are making such a fuss. He was raised to believe this was how he was supposed to be treated._

_ The Dursleys were arrested on multiple charges and are incarcerated, awaiting trial. Their son was placed in the care of child services, pending the trial's outcome. The young victim is in the hospital, recovering from his abuse. The head of paediatrics reports it looks very bad at the moment. _

_ The couple that found the child were taking a stroll through the neighbourhood in search of a house to move to once they are married, with the wedding taking place in December of this year. The couple has stated that they refuse to move to such a neighbourhood that holds such wolf in sheep's clothing. One cannot disagree. They have also stated that they plan to adopt the child they found if he fully recovers. _

Sherlock was filled with satisfaction. The article was filled with bullocks but it ensured that people stayed off their backs. Mrs Hudson knew that Mycroft tended to embellish the truth, regardless of his denial the man enjoyed theatrics as much as Sherlock did. No, what worried him was that…

"Sherlock! I've just read the newspaper. Oh, congratulations on the wedding! We're you waiting to tell everyone?" cried Mrs Hudson rushing into the flat. Sherlock parted his mouth to say something but then John and Harcourt came in.

"Oh, John! Congratulations. I can't wait for the wedding…"

John cocked his head to Sherlock who held up the paper and mouthed 'Mycroft', before saying:

"My brother decided to put it into the article. You know how _involved _he enjoys becoming. I haven't asked John yet and all Holmeses are married in December…" Sherlock lied through his teeth. The truth was that his brother put it in there for P.R and Holmeses usually married in the Spring. Over the last three years Sherlock found he could admit he loved John, was in love with him. John, however, didn't have an interest in Sherlock, at least not romantically. John preferred women and Sherlock admitted that he took after the ancient Romans in being flippant towards sexuality as a whole. So Sherlock was planning on just letting John fall in love and marry some nice woman who was worthy of the man and be alone with his cases.

"Well, now that the cat's out of the bag about the proposal, what do you say John?" Mrs Hudson asked. She'd seen these boys together for years, knowing John hadn't been over Sherlock when that Mary cow had tried to take Sherlock's place. She wasn't about to let their shyness of the relationship interfere with their happiness; especially not that little Harcourt was around.

John, for his part was shocked. He knew Sherlock had lied, that Mycroft was doing this solely for a good story for the public was most likely, hopefully, the case; but Mrs Hudson believed it. Sherlock had tried to help with the lie, but he'd made it worse. John looked at Harcourt to find big, wide emerald eyes staring up at him with complete hope. _My relationships have been crashing and burning ever since I met Sherlock, why the hell not? _John sighed inwardly.

"I-yes, yes."

Mrs Hudson clapped her hands in joy whilst Harcourt's smile nearly split his face in two. 


	7. Chapter VI-Something old, Something new

**The wedding scene will be next ch. so hold on. I just thought this would be fun; playing with the saying "something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue." Also, John's family is revealed. It's a shocker, and Sherlock's got a surprise for John. Hehe... Also, I think the last scene was needed just because of the feels and cuteness of it. Ta**

**Chapter VI-Something old, Something new**

**221B Baker St.-London, Late November**

John knew for a fact that Sherlock wanted to kill Mycroft, and most likely had several plausible ideas as to how to go about assassinating the British Government. John had half a mind to join his soon to be husband in the job. Mrs Hudson had taken over as wedding planner and John, after much typing and deleting, announced the upcoming nuptials on his blog. Both the blog and Sherlock's site had received messages containing both congratulations and condemnation.

John had also had to call his sister, who insisted upon coming to help Mrs Hudson with the wedding plans. John knew Sherlock wouldn't invite anyone, so John was left to make the guest list whilst Sherlock decided on the food and music. They'd set the date for early December, the seventh, and that left them two more weeks to get everything ready. The wedding and reception would take place on the Holmes Estate near Brighton. The invitations were all addressed and posted.

Thankfully Mr and Mrs Granger, a couple of dentists, had agreed to let Harry have several play-dates in a row with their lovely daughter Hermione., whilst he was being taken care of by Mycroft. He supposed the kind pair were just happy for their little girl to finally have a friend; apparently she was insufferable most of the time because she turned to books as balm for the bitter loneliness she felt at school. Unfortunately, for the Grangers and John, Sherlock had been encouraging the young witch and wizard to learn control over their accidental magic; which Harry had already for the most part.

John was just thankful that the two hadn't blown anything up, like Harry had when she and John had been young. Speaking of his sister she looked pretty sober. The war had effected her rather hard, especially with their parents' fate, but that wasn't an excuse to destroy her liver with fire whiskey. They'd never gotten on, and after the discovery of John being a squib whilst she went to Hogwarts, things only got worse over the years. They were just too different of people, at least she'd tried to stay in touch, and at least she still loved him.

Regardless, the drinking was the big problem, and Clara. Clara had been so good for Harry, John had invited her and he knew Harry's drinking had become worse since the separation. They were lucky it had just been a civil service and not a magical one, those were permanent in just about everyway.

John sighed and shook himself from his musings. He was staring at his new pair of oxfords; "Something old, something new dear," Mrs Hudson had said before she and Harry had dragged him off to go shopping. John was retired military with war honours, he was going to wear his officer's uniform to the ceremony, which meant no tuxedo; most of his comrades home for whatever reason had already sent an R.S.V.P with a note saying they'd be in uniform as a sign of respect for him. Also, they wanted to see who was marrying their captain, if he was good enough. John had to smile as he remembered Sherlock's expression when he'd told the detective. The man had appeared flustered and out of sorts. Then he'd gone off to his violin and hadn't really spoken since.

John gave a concerned sigh that had been a week ago. Thinking of the other groom… _What am I supposed to get him for a wedding present? _John asked himself. He didn't know what to get Sherlock that was appropriate for the consulting detective. If his "Mummy" had still been alive John would've asked her, but Mycroft was his only living blood relative he knew of and Sherlock thought of him as an archenemy. John had no idea about the father, _neither _brother ever spoke about him.

"What are you thinking about?" Harry asked behind him. She wasn't used to complete muggle dress and the jeans didn't feel quite right with her; causing her to shift. Of course, she also never knew how to handle her brother. She never had, where she ducked her head and did as told; he always asked questions and would say no if he didn't agree. She was meek, and he had a backbone. He'd confront and she'd look the other way. Perhaps he'd have known how to handle the war differently than she had, he'd have been able to make the tough decisions himself. _It's no good thinking of what ifs and things that never happened, _she told herself and offered a smile.

"Trying to think of a present for Sherlock, I'm not quite sure what to get him," John told her. She gave her little brother a small smile. She understood that.

"Try to think of what is important to him, where his passions lay, and what his interests are. You should be able to find something from that," she offered in way as advice. John gave her a smile of gratitude. She was glad she'd done something right, for once.

"So, whose kit and caboodle is all this in the boxes?" she asked.

"Oh, a former flatmate. Rather aggressive towards Sherlock and Harcourt, their mates are picking their things up soon," John said. Harry had met her nephew, such a sweet boy and there was a lot of magic in the child. Sherlock seemed a nice sort too, in his own way. He was very accepting of magic for a muggle, at least.

John hadn't lied, he'd called Mary's friends and told them Mary was moving out but didn't have time to do it herself. They'd be coming this weekend to help. Harcourt was staying with Mycroft for a week or so, but it was allowing the two to bond. Harcourt still had night terrors about Vernon Dursley, and the cupboard under the stairs.

"Uh, John…" Harry hesitated. John got a prickly feeling along the back of his neck. She was going to talk about their parents. He just knew she was, it always went like this; they'd share an awkward but relatively comfortable conversation, and then she'd bring them up.

"I thought you'd want this for the wedding. The men of our family have worn it for generations at their bonding ceremonies with their partners…I know what you're going to say, 'I haven't been a part of the family since I was eleven.' I understand, they made it clear they didn't want you and I get that you don't want to, but… John-"

"_They _didn't want me in the line at all, remember, _Hera_? Great grandmother had to convince them not to kill me, and that was because I had her colouring and personality. I'm a Watson, not a Lestrange, I don't need nor want whatever it is."

"Great-grandmother Cassiopeia asked me to give them to you, should you ever get married. I'll just put them here, _Cygnus_," she said in a soft voice. On the table beside John she put a pair of jewelled pins; both made of blue sapphires arranged into matching constellations. Only one of the Black family could wear these with his partner. John and Great-grandmother had stood out, both for their colouring and their personalities. She'd held power in the family, and that had saved John's life. Still, should he and Sherlock wear them on their wedding day? He heard Hera leave.

_Perhaps I did get the Black madness, I am marrying Sherlock. Merlin, I'm mad for living with him in the first place, _John thought to himself. Perhaps it would be fitting to wear something as old and familial as the pins. Perhaps…

"That's it!" he cried and ran out the door. He came back in for his coat but left just as fast again. He'd just thought of the most perfect idea for Sherlock's wedding present and John had to get it before he forgot.

**Town House of Mycroft Holmes- one week later**

The sound of the piano could be heard throughout the house. The song was lovely but played in a way that said the pianist was tentative, almost scared of playing. Even an amateur could tell that the pianist was newt at the skill and instrument. In the parlour that still held the feeling that you were in one of Wilde's plays when you entered, there was a piano with two people sitting to it. One a tall man whilst the other a small boy. Mycroft had decided to teach his nephew the piano, as Mummy had taught it to him. His nephew was a quick study and the two had begun actual melodies now. They'd begun talking and Mycroft found himself teaching his nephew decourum and ettiqute. Lord knew Sherlock wouldn't teach it to him, and John didn't know the well-bred mannerisms. Mycroft looked upon it as a duty to teach Harcourt how to hold himself, and Harcourt looked upon it as a duty to learn.

"Very good, Harcourt. Try it in C-minor now…Very good, although you must play with more confidence. You have the skill, trust yourself; a Holmes always acts as if he knows what he is doing," Mycroft said with a small smile. Harcourt nodded and tried the melody again.

"Much better, Harcourt. Did you hear the difference?"

"The third attempt sounded much better than the first two. It flowed better," Harcourt said and tried to be confident with his bearing. He failed. Mycroft chuckled.

"exactly correct, Harry. Just keep practicing not just the piano, but your confidence. It will come in time," he said and patted his nephew's head with affection. Harry gave him a small smile. At first he'd been afraid, and then weary of his new uncle. However, uncle My was only scaring looking on the outside, on the inside he was as soft and cuddly as a teddy bear was.

"Uncle, why did you push Daddy and Papa to get married?" Harry asked. He'd been wondering since Mycroft had told him.

"Your fathers are very slow when it comes to their love for each other; one doesn't quite realise he's in love whilst the other refused to verbalise it."

"Oh…"

"Come, Harcourt. It is time for luncheon and then your dancing lesson," Mycroft said getting off the bench. Harcourt scrambled after him, which got him a gentle chiding from his uncle. Holmes men do not scramble. They proceed with dignity. _Always._


	8. Chapter VII- Wedding

**Hello Lovelies, this is it. The wedding chapter... Ta**

**Chapter VII- Something borrowed, Something blue **

**Holmes Estate- Seventh of December**

Sherlock looked around the vast gardens that were dusted in light snow. It was cold out, but not unbearable and John had said that he was willing to brace the cold to keep with the Holmes tradition of getting married outside. Sherlock stood on the terrace that connected to the gardens. He wore his blue scarf around his neck as he stood in his dark, wool suit-he hated tuxedos and John was wearing his uniform.

John was down in the gardens, were the ceremony would be held, with his men. His officer's uniform crisp and warm in the cold. John had kept up his physique after his discharge and his tawny hair was still cut to military regulations. He looked very fetching. Mrs Hudson was wearing a lovely blue gown and was speaking to Harriet, or rather Hera, whilst holding little Harcourt. Mike Stamford was down in the gardens with Molly and Anthea. Lestrade was down there, finally divorced from his wife-he was Molly's date. Why Anderson and his wife were there Sherlock had no idea, but Donovan was as well and Sherlock was looking forward to the awkward conversations he'd observe the trio having. The young inspector Dimmock was down there, Sherlock was pleased to note the young man did indeed have a shining career.

"It is very fascinating to see them all down there, isn't it? Who would have thought such a sizable group would show on your behalf," Mycroft said at his side. He wore a tuxedo, and was still carrying that umbrella of his.

"They're really more here for John than I. Which reminds me, you'll pay for this. I haven't quite decided how, but you will _suffer _for pushing this upon John," Sherlock said. Mycroft smiled.

"Suffer for what? I ensured my younger brother finally has what he's been pining for, John finally will have a long-lasting relationship; and you both get custody of my nephew. Harcourt has become quite taken with the piano, recently."

"I will not have my son playing your instrument. He'll be learning the violin, after this."

"You do realise he'll be staying with me for the next month, don't you? Oh dear, Sherlock, you and John are going on a wedding trip. For a month. It's all planned, don't worry, after all this is my wedding gift to you both. Tell me you actually got John a wedding gift, Sherlock."

"Of course I'm giving him a wedding present. This may not be my area of expertise but I'm not entirely incompetent…"

"…You realise consummation must be done to make this wedding valid, don't you?"

"You mean sex? Yes, John and I have talked about it."

_That _had been an awkward conversation. They'd been…Getting comfortable with intimate touching for the last week or so. Sherlock still felt very out of sorts about kissing John, but no one would notice and John had given him the revelation that he had actually been in a homosexual relationship once in medical school. That had resulted in Sherlock declaring John the expert and foisting all responsibility onto John.

"Well, it's about time for the ceremony. Before we head down, Sherlock… This was father's ring. I want you to wear it for this… Mummy-"

"I know, My. I know… Shall we be brotherly before them all today, shock them with our behaviour?"

"Still the child," Mycroft said with affection, although only Sherlock could detect it. That childhood nickname, My, had not been said by Sherlock in years. The utterance today warmed the iceman, far more than he'd admit, and was proof that Sherlock didn't really blame Mycroft for what had happened. Their father, on the other hand, Mycroft knew Sherlock would never forgive the dead man.

Sherlock slipped the family ring onto his finger and the brothers headed down to the people below.

John noticed them and excused himself from his comrades. He walked up to Sherlock and pulled the man aside.

"Sherlock, I've got something I want you to wear-since we agreed not to do flowers… My great-grandmother wanted me to wear them on my wedding day. She and I were quite close and I feel like we should wear it in honour of her," he rambled as he placed the pin on Sherlock's lapel. Sherlock held John's arms to stop the doctor from retreating, and gently placed a kiss to his brow. John flushed a little and the two stayed like that for a few moments.

"Come on, we've got to get to the alter," John said. They walked to the centre of the gardens, everyone had taken their seats, and they stood in front of the man Mycroft had hired. Harcourt clapped his hands in excitement. Daddy and Papa were getting married! The ceremony was brief, and elegant. Everyone agreed the detective and his assistant looked very natural together.

The kiss they shared signalled many of the soldiers to catcall and whistle. Most others clapped as they laughed. The group moved into the manor for the reception. For the first time in several decades, the manor's ballroom was used. John and Sherlock sat at the head of the main table.

"So, you grew up here?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

"I hated it, still do," Sherlock replied under his breath. Mycroft made an eloquent toast to the happy couple. Then Lestrade made one, as Best man. Then John stood, he said a few words and gave Sherlock a wrapped box. John sat down and whispered; "Don't open it here. Let's just say I got you data about a certain secret subject."

Sherlock smiled at the gift, something on magic-most likely books. John was so very kind. Sherlock nodded to one of the servant, and then stood. This was the speech everyone wanted to hear.

"I'm terrible at speeches that don't have to do with crime, so I won't do one at all. Instead, I'll just skip straight to giving John his gift," at that moment the servant handed Sherlock his violin. "John, I –I composed this for you."

The entire room was quiet as Sherlock started to play. It was simple and soft. Although played in minor, there was a warmth to the notes. John felt his throat dry out and he forced his eyes to remain dry. Mrs Hudson, Molly and Hera were openly crying. Even Mycroft was affected. Sherlock had not played an original piece before a crowd since their Mummy's funeral. To hear him do so now was as it had been then, pure magic. Sherlock could have chosen to be many things besides consulting detective, a composer was one of those things.

When Sherlock finished he handed off the violin and sat down. John pulled him into a long kiss as a thunderous applause to the place of the violin's sound.

"That was beautiful, thank-you," John said when they finally broke apart. The reception continued on its schedule with dancing and music. Sherlock and John danced a waltz on their own once and refused to do so again when Anderson started filming it. Fecking ferret man with no intellect.

Far too soon the reception ended and the guests departed. Harcourt had already fallen asleep.

"I have a suite booked in a hotel for you two. Tomorrow you'll leave on a noon flight to Italy. Enjoy," Mycroft said as he held his nephew.

"Oh, ah, thanks Mycroft. That's very kind of you, and thanks for taking care of Harcourt too. Sherlock, don't say anything to ruin the moment. Just kiss Harry good-bye and let's go," John said as he saw Sherlock get the glint in his eyes that said he was going to act as a child did. Sherlock glared at him but kissed Harry's fading scar and said:

"Are you making sure he puts the cream I made for him on his scars three times a day?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Now go, I'll take care of Harcourt. Good night John, oh and John?"

John turned in the doorway.

"Yeah?"

"Do be gentle with my brother."

John blushed and, since he couldn't find any words, nodded.

**The Suite room- Brighton, wedding night **

Sherlock shifted in his position on the bed. All he could think of was the number of people who had had sex before he and John in the bed he lay on. John looked over from his computer. He closed it and got up.

"Nervous?" John asked and stopped at Sherlock's side. Sherlock looked at him.

"NO, I'm busy thing about how we're about to be another couple to soil these sheets," he said and wrinkled his nose. John sighed, _Why can't he just admit he's a little scared?_ He thought. The doctor leaned down and brushed their lips together. A moment later John pressed their mouths together a little more firmly. Sherlock parted his lips as he cupped John's neck and face. John slipped his tongue along Sherlock's. The tongues danced with each other as John undid Sherlock's shirt and trousers.

Sherlock's own hands slid down to John's clothes and copied the movements. John leaned against the bed, one leg on and one leg off. His left hand slipped down Sherlock's open trousers as his right tangled itself in Sherlock's cark curls. He squeezed gently and Sherlock gasped.

The consulting detective mirrored the action and John groaned. The doctor got onto the bed and broke the kiss, kneeling. Sherlock was gasping and blushing, his eyes turned a clear jade and hazed with pleasure. _Oh, god if he gets addicted to this, _John thought as he removed his shirt and trousers. Sherlock assisted him with relish. The dark haired man paused as John's manhood was exposed.

It was a fine specimen, John would hit him if the doctor knew he was analysing. A little larger than the size to be considered proportionally accurate, but Sherlock didn't mind. The organ had the same scent as John, clean and earthy. Like garden dirt after the rain. Sherlock ran a single finger along the length. He heard John swallow, and decided to compare the texture he felt under his finger. Sherlock ran his tongue along the length. It felt the same, but it tasted of salt and flesh. He heard John suck in breath. _Suck…_ he thought, before taking the head into his mouth. He felt John's calloused fingers tangle in his hair and allowed himself to be guided further onto the cock.

John couldn't stop looking at the sight Sherlock made. Those full lips encasing him, the motion Sherlock's head made. The hollowed cheeks and glittering eyes. He couldn't handle it, it was just too much. He gripped Sherlock's head and guided the consulting detective off of him.

Sherlock looked up confused, the sounds John had made in response to his sucking had indicated his success, hadn't it. John crushed their lips together when he saw Sherlock's confusion; and he pushed the man onto his back. Together they got Sherlock's trousers and shirt off. John sucked on three of his fingers before spreading Sherlock's legs.

"You're too good at that for your own good," John said before kissing his husband. Sherlock blushed, but spread his legs a little wider. John pushed a single finger against Sherlock's ring of muscle, he paused before pushing past and into the tight heat. He felt more than heard Sherlock's moan. Looks like Sherlock's rectum was a sensitive place for the consulting detective.

John worked on widening Sherlock; and a second and a third digit into the small cavern in time. Sherlock was actively pushing back onto the fingers and moaning. He wanted it, oh he wanted John. Now.

"John, John I'm ready. Alright? I'm ready," Sherlock said. John paused in his ministrations. He looked at Sherlock before retracting his fingers. He lined them up.

"This is going to be a little painful," he said before pushing himself in.

"JOHN!" Oh that was more than a little painful, but the feeling of being full far outweighed the pain. John was still until Sherlock canted his hips. His thrusts were slow at first, and shallow. When Sherlock started to push back, his rectum tightening in tandem with the thrusts; John began to loose control.

There were no words, just moans and panting breath. When John hit Sherlock's prostrate, Sherlock came, his fingers digging into John's back and his muscles tightening. John came from the heated constriction. The two laid panting, one on top of the other. It wasn't until they were almost asleep that John mustered enough energy to pull out of Sherlock.


	9. Chapter VIII- Meeting of two Governments

**Hello, Lovelies. I warn you there be fluffiness in this towards the end. The characters may seem a little OOC. Also, I am ****legitimately asking this question: mostly because I'm curious. In a Mycroft Vs. Dumbledore duel, who do you think would win? Review your answer, please. **

**Chapter VIII- A meeting of two Governments**

**Mycroft's Office-Parliament, mid-December **

Mycroft was in his office, looking through his schedule for that day. Anthea already told him his schedule, but she'd charmed the date book to let him know any changes. It really was wonderful to have a witch for his personal assistant. Of course, even though he held a minor position in the government, he knew about the Wizarding World. He'd been notified of who young Harry Potter was, what he'd done and where he was to live after his parents' deaths.

So when said boy wonder had bee taken in by his younger brother, who had called him for a favour, and was to be adopted as a Holmes Mycroft had been a little nervous. Still, upon seeing the child he realised that at the very least the Wizarding Ministry was negligent of its children. It was deplorable what the young lad had gone through, so he'd agreed to his brother's request-not without a price, however.

Mycroft never did things by halves, and he knew more about the Wizarding World that most other muggles, he found the term pathetic but efficient to use. So, as the magical world didn't have any paper trails in the non-magical world, Mycroft decided to take the opportunity and completely reinvent his young nephew's history. A new medical record, adoption records, history at an orphanage, adding Sherlock and John's marriage certificate gave a legitimate quality to the paperwork, and a new birth certificate. Certainly, he knew Harry Potter had been born in July, but there was no Harry Potter anymore. There was a Harcourt Holmes, and he needed a birthday.

A cursive script appeared on the ledger Mycroft held; _an appointment with one Albus Dumbledore at the time: now. _Mycroft took the nearly complete file on his nephew off his desk and into a drawer just before there was a knock at the door. Mycroft took out MI-6 files before giving a soft: "enter". The man who came in wore a moss green Victorian suit and had hair past his belt. His eyes sparkled and he appeared to be past his first century.

"Ah, headmaster Dumbledore, a pleasure to meet you," Mycroft said with a smile. He knew who this man was; the British Wizarding Government. The man held far too many positions and titles to be anything else. Mycroft kept his smile as he stood, but he didn't offer his hand. A wizard did not shake hands with those he thought beneath him, and Mycroft could tell by the old man's stance that he thoroughly believed Mycroft beneath him. The British Muggle Government did not mind, let the old fool underestimate him. That's when mistakes were made and Mycroft could take the jugular. He'd find pleasure in this particular political duel. The two sat and Mycroft buzzed Anthea for tea, letting her know it was for a mister Albus Dumbledore. _Also, I need to speak with her about surprise appointments, I've a meeting with M and if I'm late because of… _

"I shan't take up much of your time; if you're worried about other appointments," Dumbledore said. Mycroft allowed shock to colour his face for a moment. _How did he know that? Magic? _Mycroft thought. Dumbledore merely smiled._ Legimens_ did have it's perks. Mycroft gave a returning smile, complacent and out of his depth, like most muggles when confronted with a wizard, that was good.

"I normally would've made an appointment with your secretary, however this is an emergency. It's about one Harry Potter," Dumbledore said. He'd only recently gotten the muggle paper that told of the Dursleys' arrest. He needed to get to Harry.

"I'm afraid I cannot help you, headmaster. That boy is beyond my jurisdiction," Mycroft said no longer smiling. His eyes were cold and Dumbledore could now see why Fudge referred to the muggle as an iceman. The headmaster's eyes no longer held a twinkle.

"Mr Holmes, if you know about us; which I know you do, then you do not merely hold a "minor position in the British government". I know you are powerful on your side of the country, which is why I am here, so you need to make where he is your jurisdiction. It is a matter of grave importance," Dumbledore said. Mycroft's eyebrow twitched.

"So important, you left him with abusive adults for half a dozen years? Mind you, I know for a fact that there were no forms on, as you say, "my side" on anyone with the names James, Lily or Harry Potter. Which I also know is highly unusual as you normally cover "your side" and its existence better than that. So I can deduce, as my brother would call it, that such an action was done to ensure none knew were young Harry Potter lived. Which had the wonderful plus of ensure that no one could check on young Harry Potter, as none knew of his existence, at least any on "my side".

"Although, that is all irrelevant as I cannot, as you so put it, "make it my jurisdiction". Although I'm quite flattered that you think so highly of my abilities," Mycroft said.

_If it takes so long to get a newspaper wherever he lives, then he has no idea of this week's edition… Probably won't know until sometime next year, if I'm judging the time lag correctly, _Mycroft thought. He'd just released the news to his reported that very morning. Dumbledore frowned at that.

"You've been speaking of Harry in the past tense. Has something happened?" Dumbledore asked. He was connecting the dots, the tense Mycroft had chosen to use, the vague references to things beyond Mycroft's power, and now this little titbit he'd picked up from the muggle's brain.

Mycroft saw the suspicion in Dumbledore's eyes. He shook his head and closed his eyes. He didn't need the old man reading the giddy thoughts of how his plan was proceeding exactly as he'd wanted it to.

"I'm afraid one Harry Potter is no longer with us," he said and that was true. The boy was still with them, but as Harcourt Holmes. With no paper trail, a child named Harry Potter didn't exist at all. Although, Dumbledore would not think along those lines.

"…The boy is dead?" the wizard asked. Mycroft furrowed his brow to appear disturbed, but didn't open his eyes. The old man would assume he was reliving the scene he'd witnessed.

"I met Harry Potter, during his last days… The damage done to him was—extensive," Mycroft said. That was also true, he'd met Harry Potter a few days before he'd become Harcourt Holmes. Still, the ambiguity of the words aided his little plot. Mycroft finally opened his eyes and looked the headmaster head on. He filled his head with the days of when Harcourt had been in the hospital, so he could finally have proper medical attention. Of course, he left John and Sherlock out of the memories he dredged up from a drawer in his mind office. Leaving only Lestrade, Mike Stamford and himself in the images, along with a very brave little boy. The scar still prominent on his brow, as Sherlock had not yet concocted his healing cream.

Dumbledore saw the extend of the damage, the taunt skin, the waxy complexion, the bruises, cuts, scars and broken bones. He saw Harry crying silent tears but refusing to scream from the pain. Finally he saw Dr Stamford shake his head silently to Mycroft and the police officer, Harry unnaturally still and peaceful on the bed below.

Dumbledore fought the tears that flooded his eyes. It had not supposed to have turned out like that; the Dursleys were supposed to break Harry not kill him. _Well, they certainly did break him. Multiple times, _a nasty voice sounded in Dumbledore's head. Sometimes he really hated his conscious.

"I—I believe I understand Mr Holmes. I'm sorry for taking up your time. Good-day to you," Dumbledore said. He stopped at the open doorway when Mycroft spoke.

"I hope you have a wonderful day of your own, headmaster. It was a pleasure to meet you," said the iceman in a charming and pleasant tone. As if he hadn't just spoken of the death of a child. Dumbledore left without another word, and Anthea appeared typing on her phone.

"I gave the tea to the guards, sir," she said. "You've an appointment with M in an hour, shall you be lunching on the way?"

"Yes, something British, Anthea. I'm feeling patriotic today," Mycroft replied and took both Harcourt's file and the most recent MI-6 report.

"Anthea, do you know any good days for a birthday?" Mycroft asked as his P.A offered him his umbrella.

"It depends on what the season is, sir."

"Let's say Winter." They were in the lift now. She still hadn't looked up from her phone.

"January 21st is an excellent day sir, or March 21st. Although the latter is cutting it close, sir," she said. She frowned, finding an appropriate place to lunch was giving her some trouble. The entered the car park and a black car pulled up.

"I think the twenty-first of January is more than suitable," Mycroft concluded. Anthea opened the door for him, nodding and typing at the same time. The Frown disappeared as she got into the car.

"There's an appropriate lunching spot on the Thames. It's quite nice, five stars and background checks out, sir," she said and began emailing the driver directions.

'That will do fine, Anthea. Contact M and tell her I wish to luncheon with her; we must talk about a certain operative of hers," Mycroft said as he filled in the date on Harcourt's new birth certificate. _21__st__ January. _

_ James Bond, _Mycroft thought as he put the file away and Anthea set about texting M's PA. _might just be the death of me; God save me, the Queen and everyone else should those two ever meet. _

**Venice-Italy, same day **

John was sitting on a bench in a piazza. His head was in his hands as birds flew about. The wind swept through the large open square and John was once again reminded that even in Italy there was winter. He and Sherlock had gone on the wedding trip; it wouldn't do to cross Mycroft by refusing to, but the last week was anything but comfortable. John would admit that was entirely his fault.

He'd had a small breakdown the morning after their wedding night. Alright, perhaps it was quite a bit larger than small, but he could still see Sherlock's expression as he ranted about what they'd done the night before. John honestly wasn't upset about the nature of the relationship. The Wizarding World didn't give one fig for what one's sexual orientation was; so long as you contributed to the population, and with men being able to get up the duff that removed any real reason to care what sex you preferred in your bed. However, John _wasn't gay._ He's tried it, to see if he was, and found he most definitely preferred women. Then he'd gone and Shagged Sherlock, who was entirely flippant about his sexual preference and also happened to be a virgin—well, he had been one before John had…

Sherlock had just stared at him, face blank and eyes painfully unreadable. John had spent three days trying to let Sherlock know that John's reaction was in no way Sherlock's fault; but all John got in return was a vacant look and a "it doesn't really matter, John".

John knew that just because Sherlock was a sociopath didn't mean he had no heart. He just kept it in chains, and held his emotions out of everyone's reach. Somehow, John was certain, he'd managed to hurt those aloof feelings; and he felt terrible about it. He didn't know what to do. How could he make this up to Sherlock?

"John?" the name was called all the way across the piazza, but as the entire place was empty but for birds and John—it was the middle of the day—the doctor heard his name perfectly clear. His head snapped up and he saw, of all the people he knew, Mary running up to him. John couldn't understand why this was happening to him.

At the entrance to the piazza stood Sherlock. He'd been wondering the streets of Venice all morning, looking for John. The man had left before him. Again. Sherlock hated the fact that the map room of his mind palace did not have the most recent map of Venice. That would change, immediately. Sherlock knew John found this marriage terrible. John hadn't wanted it; Mycroft had pushed him in. Still, it hurt worse knowing John didn't want this even after the wedding night. _Don't think about that, it won't do any good,_ Sherlock told himself; and then he heard John's name being called up ahead. _The piazza, of course! _

So here he was, standing at the entrance to the square; witnessing Mary running up to John and John standing up to greet her. Sherlock knew this was entirely coincidence, the doctor hadn't known Mary would be here, in Venice. This was a chance meeting, _but. It. Hurt. Anyway. _

"Mycroft is right," Sherlock whispered to himself as he saw Mary stop in front of John, hesitate and then moved to embrace him. Sherlock turned around, he couldn't see that. "Caring isn't an advantage."

"Get off Mary, I said get off,"

Sherlock froze at the words and turned in time to see John push Mary away. Hard.

"John," she said.

"I'm married. Happily, well, I would be if I wasn't an idiot… I never thought I'd agree with him on that," John said. The last part was more for himself, but the empty square made every word ring. Sherlock was finding breathing hard to do. Had John really just said that?

"_Him_?! You married—"

"Sherlock, yes I did. It was a wonderful ceremony, and this is our wedding trip. Now, please leave, I'd rather not have you ruin it," John said and turned to walked away, only to see Sherlock standing there. _Of course he's heard everything, _John thought before smiling. Sherlock looked, well, back to his usual self.

"You wanted to meet here so we could go back to the hotel?" Sherlock called out. Lying easily. John smiled wider this time.

"Yeah, come on," John said and took Sherlock's arm when they got close enough. Sherlock slipped his gloved hand into John's and they walked away from a shocked Mary.

"She ended up in the sea," Sherlock said. "Her clothes are wrinkled in a manner that proves they dried on her, the coarse texture of her skin states lots of salt water, lots of sun. She'd only just got out."

"Harcourt put her in the sea?" John tried to sound concerned but failed. The two held a beat of silence before braking down into laughter. John squeezed Sherlock's hand as they walked, and Sherlock squeezed back. So John wasn't gay, at least, not unless it was Sherlock.


	10. Chapter IX-The Change

**Hello lovelies, I'm Back. Sorry this is rather late for me, but real life held me hostage. Also, my friend's plot bunny and my plot bunny had a heated affair, and...There was a result of the union that-you've just got to read it. The first three chapters are coming soon: it's a tricrossover and is so epic. Here's smut that does, _does _have a a point to the plot. Honest! You can read now. **

**Chapter IX—The Change**

**A Hotel Room-Rome, New Years Eve **

Sherlock was in bed—he honestly didn't see the point of staying up past midnight one day a year simply because it marks the change in a specific time reference. It made no sense and was dull, so here he was in their bed… _Their bed, _John's and his bed. His heart gave a delightful contraction at the thought. Was this really what being in love with someone was like? He rememberedfeeling something similar for Mummy as a boy; he remembered feeling _nothing_, just complete numbness at her death when he was nine years old.

Sherlock burrowed deeper beneath the blankets and inhaled the scent John left on his side to help lock that terrible memory into his mother's chambers of his mind palace. He heard John come out of the bathroom, his hair relatively dry, although he'd just gotten done with the shower.

"Not staying up for New year's again, Sherlock?" John said. He always stayed up for New Year's eve. It reminded him of some great memories, even if his new year's eves of late had been rather eventless—unless something gruesome happened to some poor bloke and Sherlock got called out of bed, and dragged John out of his own. That had only happened once, and John was rather glad for that. Still, it was sad that Sherlock didn't participate in the tradition.

"It's dull," was the muffled replied, and John saw the tousled dark curls go deeper beneath the crème coloured linen. John stared at the lump in their bed and thought for a moment. John walked over to the bed, letting his towel fall from his waist as he did so. The ex-captain put his weight on the lump and burrowed his face into the linen so he could get to Sherlock's neck.

"Well, why don't we make it interesting, hm?" John said as he nipped Sherlock's neck and rubbed himself on the man covered in blankets. Sherlock tried to ignore the stimuli, he knew what John was trying to do, for the mere principle of going against the plot his John had cooked up. His resistance crumbled under John's patience and determination. Sherlock threw the blankets off in order to get up and away from John's gentle persistence. Did he want John in him? Yes, definitely, but John's plan was to distract him until midnight. He'd sleep in the bloody bathroom, the door had a lock, just to spite his husband.

John had combat skills, though, and took that moment to grab Sherlock and pin the genius beneath him. John captured his mad husband's full lips and bit. Sherlock's nature didn't allow for a set routine; John had realised after the Venice incident that he'd end up having to experiment in their bed. A bit of rough play would be a good way to start, and let Sherlock know that in certain instances if John said jump the detective should just bloody jump. Sherlock moan and his hips canted at the pain.

John pulled away smug. Sherlock lips were smeared with blood and his eyes were gleaming. John ripped Sherlock's shirt off him. The detective regained his senses just enough to try and make a break during the activity. _So stubborn, _John sighed to himself as he pinned Sherlock to the bed, this time facedown in the pillows.

John kept his husband's hands pinned to Sherlock's back with one hand whilst the other pulled the dark sleeping pants down to reveal perfect, pale cheeks.

"Trying to get away, hm? I should punish you for that," John mused as he caressed Sherlock's ass. Sherlock was tense but didn't struggle; logically he knew where this was leading, but he still wasn't ready when the first spank came. John chortled when Sherlock jumped beneath him. He slapped the cheeks three more times, hard, and it was the forth that Sherlock relaxed with a low moan. _Finally, I was beginning to think he didn't actually want this,_ John thought and kneaded the blotchy globes with calloused fingers.

Sherlock hitched forward a little when the hand came down hard on his bottom, but it felt amazing and he moan again into the pillows. John felt a satisfied smile grace his face as he continued to spank Sherlock. When his husband's ass was right and bright John halted in the punishment.

"On your knees, Sherlock," John ordered. Sherlock groaned as he heard John speak as he always did when playing to soldier captain; calm, soft but brooking no argument or disobedience. Sherlock adored it. He rose to his hands and knees and felt his sleeping pants being dragged downward. He shifted his legs open as wide as they could go uninhibited by the pants. Sherlock felt a rough hand spread his cheeks apart and wet fingers tease his opening, and it took _everything _he had to keep from shivering in delight.

"Have you had enough punishment yet, hm?" John asked as his index slid into Sherlock and began a slow rhythm. Sherlock tried to keep still, as he was sure was expected of him.

"Well… Spare the rod, spoi-l the child," Sherlock breathed; his breath hitching midway because John had crooked his index finger and brushed his prostrate. John gave a hum of contemplation as he added another finger and sped up the thrusting. Sherlock trembled against the urge to push back when the fingers twisted inside him. John gave a hum of approval at his efforts and he felt the doctor's cool lips gently kissing along his heated backside.

"I do suppose that's true… And I can't very well spoil you now, can I?" John asked. It was a rhetorical question but Sherlock shook his head "no" in response. John leaned in as he added another finger.

"I want to hear you Sherlock, _beg._ Say you're sorry, or this won't end," John whispered in the detective's ear. Sherlock wetted his lips but otherwise kept silent. John was had patience, however, and simply kept the slow thrusting going, crooking and twisting his finger every once and a while. Finally, Sherlock broke.

"I—John, I'm so-sorry. Alright? I-ah, ha… I'm sorry, so, please."

"Alright, Sherlock. That's all I needed to hear," John said as he contracted his fingers. He lined them up and slid his way into Sherlock. His husband cried out beneath him with pure, unadulterated pleasure. Now that he was sheathed in Sherlock, John felt the same overwhelming need that Sherlock did, and the two set a fast and rough pace. John placed one hand around Sherlock engorged prick and pumped, whilst the other curled into his hair to yank his head back. John took Sherlock's mouth in a bruising kiss as he thrusted. Sherlock came first, his fluids spurting forth so hard he saw spots; John felt the constricting heat tighten and coil around him and followed, seeing blinding light behind his eyes.

The two collapsed in bed together, entangled with each other.

"So what was I apologising for?" Asked Sherlock. John smiled into the pillow.

"Nothing, I just wanted to hear you say it. By the way, Happy New Year."

**221B Baker St.-London, 21****st**** January **

Harcourt was shocked. He'd woken up that day to find out it was his birthday; of course, he realised that the probability of it _truly _being the day of his birth was small. However, the fact he was getting a birthday at all made it better than anything else. Hermione and her parents were there, along with Mrs Hudson, Uncle Lestrade, Aunt Harry, Papa and Daddy and Uncle Mycroft. There was cake, and songs and presents.

His favourite, though, was the pug Daddy had gotten for him; he'd named it Gladstone and he couldn't believe the dog actually _liked _him. The scar that horrid Mrs Dursley hated was near invisible now, and he had oval glasses now that suited him much better. The eye doctor had said the damage from living in the cupboard may not be permanent. Still he had severe astigmatism and would need glasses. He and Hermione played with Gladstone by levitating to pug into the air. Daddy, Mrs Hudson and the Grangers scolded them for that.

Uncle Mycroft handed Papa a bunch of papers; copies of important things, Harcourt assumed. He didn't really care, today was the happiest day of his life.

Harcourt and the group at 221B Baker Street had no idea that the Daily Prophet had just leaked information concerning the Dursleys; the paper reported the death of Harry James Potter. Only Mycroft, who got the paper from Anthea the following day, appreciated the irony of the timing.


End file.
